


Of Fish and Flowers

by Kestrealbird



Series: Daily Lives of the DiaCu Household [1]
Category: Fate/stay night - All Media Types
Genre: Diarmuid being a Gay Fool, Emiya-san verse for the happiness, Other, Pining, Pre-Relationship, and they were ROOMMATES, mild Angst I guess?, mostly just fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 20:29:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18351140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrealbird/pseuds/Kestrealbird
Summary: “Why don't you just take it for me then?” He attempts to lean against the doorframe, misses his mark completely, and recovers by laying himself on the floor, cocooned in his blankets like a particularly pathetic caterpillar.Diarmuid very nearly drops Dorothy’s lead. “I don't even know anything about fish!” He protests, ignoring any and all Salmon based associations in his brain.





	Of Fish and Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many feelings about this AU and you bet I have a whole timeline of events planned out in my head.

Cú Chulainn emerges from his sleep just as the sun is cresting high above their windows, and Diarmuid has finished dishing up breakfast. Cú can cook, sometimes, if he really wants to, but his skills mostly consist of outdoor barbeque so Diarmuid’s gotten shoved into the role of “meal provider”.

It's not so bad, though, because Cú works about a thousand different jobs, and constantly brings money into the house. Diarmuid works, too, as a dog walker in the mornings and a florist in the afternoons. He prefers the quieter side of life; the peace and the silence. Cú thrives on attention it seems; always striking conversation with strangers on the street and the neighbours next door.

He talks to his various plants around the house, too, when he thinks no-one can hear him. It’s mostly nonsense, really, but Diarmuid likes the sound of Cú’s voice so he listens whenever he can, regardless.

“That better be bacon,” Cú grumbles in lieu of a greeting, shuffling over to the kitchen table, hair messy and loose about his shoulders, a blanket wrapped firmly around him.

“It is,” Diarmuid says, pushing a bowl of chicken soup under Cú’s nose and hogging about ten slices of bacon to himself. It’s _absolutely_ worth the indignation that he sees from the other side of the table.

Cú scowls at him something fierce, eyes watering as he resists the urge to have another coughing fit. It’s his own fault, of course, for going skinny dipping in the middle of Autumn with Iskander. Heroic Spirits could, apparently, now that the Grail Wars were over and they could live fairly normal, immortal lives, get sick like any other person on the planet.

Diarmuid had - with the minimal amount of effort required for doing so - _tried_ warning him about his hubris. Cú Chulainn has had to deal with his smugness for the last two days ever since.

They finish breakfast quickly enough, even with Cú’s pathetic whining about being babied (which he shuts up about when Diarmuid threatens to call Scáthach and have _her_ look after him instead).

It still feels a little bit surreal, having Cú Chulainn living with him, eating at the same table and complaining about his day as if they’ve always done this, as if they knew each other in the past and simply went on a long break of not seeing each other, like how humans graduate from school then reconnect with someone ten years later and suddenly become best friends again or something.

Surreal but...nice, all in all. Even if that one ugly hawaiin shirt keeps reappearing no matter how many times Diarmuid tries to get rid of it in secret. It’s definitely cursed.

He’s tying up his trainers at the front door, preparing to pick up Dorothy, a sweet bullmastiff who likes to chew on his jacket, when he _feels_ Cú plotting a way to sneak out of the house from behind him. Whatever Cú’s plan is can't be any worse than when he tried to go out the fire-escape on the second floor window and got himself tangled up in the blinds, hanging over the balcony like an idiot. Gilgamesh still has the photos.

With practiced patience, Diarmuid levels him a hard look over his shoulder, tapping his heel against the floor for good measure.

Cú, predictably, bristles. “I don’t have anyone to take my shift at work!”

“That’s because you’re the only one who works there,” Diarmuid responds simply, grabbing the pink starry lead hanging from the hat stand that neither of them really uses for its intended purposes. Cú got it for free by picking it up from the street and they’ve never seen a reason to throw it out.

There's something to be said about Cú’s specific brand of stubbornness, Diarmuid grouses to himself, because as quickly as Cú is to stick his heels in and argue for a good twenty minutes, he’s even quicker at calmly letting Diarmuid think he’s proven his point before dropping a truly _outlandish_ solution onto him.

“Why don't you just take it for me then?” He attempts to lean against the doorframe, misses his mark completely, and recovers by laying himself on the floor, cocooned in his blankets like a particularly pathetic caterpillar.

Diarmuid very nearly drops Dorothy’s lead. “I don't even know anything about fish!” He protests, ignoring any and all Salmon based associations in his brain.

Cú, ignoring his logic completely, shrugs. “Then learn,” he says because his life is just _so easy_ to live.

“You want me to learn all there is about fish in - “ Diarmuid checks the clock, does some quick mental maths - “exactly ten minutes?”

“Yup.” Of course he does. He’s Cú Chulainn and “impossible standards” isn’t a phrase he’s ever been familiar with. “I’ll even help you out. I’m a great teacher.” That would, probably, sound a lot more convincing if he didn’t succumb to another wet coughing fit, shivering in his blanket prison.

Diarmuid has a very weak constitution for people in need and, not for the first time, curses his own knightly virtues.

He ends up agreeing with Cú Chulainn’s stupid idea.

* * *

 

A part of Diarmuid had hoped, sincerely, that Cú was joking earlier. Evidently, he was not, because Diarmuid finds himself sitting in _their room_ (and just like the last six months he ignores all the connotations of _that_ , falsely promising to finally set up a second bedroom with a separate bed), cross-legged on the floor, head resting on an open book as Cú laughs at his piss-poor pronunciation of Escargot. The “t” is silent, as it turns out, and an accent is needed for the whole word.

Or maybe that’s just Cú teasing him again. Either one is just as likely in Diarmuid’s opinion.

“This is never going to work,” Diarmuid groans for the fifth time.

Cú’s grinning at him. Diarmuid can feel it. “Not with that attitude it won't.”

They have five minutes before Diarmuid needs to leave for Cú Chulainn’s job. Five more minutes of torture before he gets shoved into the lion’s den. _Perfect_.

“Why did I let you talk me into this?” He gestures, broadly, to all the books on fish strewn around them, and the notes he’s been trying to take in a little sketchpad. “I don't even know what that is. Mackerel maybe?” No, it isn't, and he knows this because Cú is looking at him as if he’s just casually admitted to murdering his own grandmother on a first date as an opening line, and he really wants to just. Disappear forever thank you. No more embarrassment.

“Because you love me,” Cú says, “that’s why.” He doesn’t realize how right he is. Diarmuid has loved the thought of Cú Chulainn for centuries, long before they ever met one another, and those feelings have transformed from the distant fantasies of a boy newly learning about himself, to those of a man so helplessly in love it’s sort of pathetic, really. “That’s Salmon, by the way,” Cú continues, scrunching his nose. “What did you ever _eat_ in Ireland?”

“My enemies.”

That was Salmon? How did he not recognize _Salmon_ of all things? He’d eaten Salmon before right? Yeah of course he has. He’s eaten it with Fionn before. All the Fianna Knights were given Salmon on Sundays. Unless it was fake Salmon. Could Fionn produce fake Salmon?

Probably. He’s enough of a dick to think it up, at least.

“Maybe I can just wing it. Make up the information as I go. Do a remix, even.”

“Absolutely not,” Cú replies, leaning over the table to flick Diarmuid’s forehead. “I’m going to cram the basic knowledge into you if it’s the last thing I do.”

It very well might be. Cú has another coughing fit, cursing Iskander for not suffering from the same ills as himself. Diarmuid hands him another cup of honey tea, shifting into a more comfortable position on his knees.

Two more minutes. Crunch time.

* * *

 

Selling fish is...actually rather easy, once he gets the hang of it. Sure the first hour had been stressful and panic-inducing - mostly because he didn’t want to fuck up Cú’s job and get him fired - but once he got into the groove. Well. It became kind of fun. Not the handling fish part, but talking to people and hearing about their day was. Relaxing.

Most of the regulars - whom Diarmuid only recognized as such because Cú Chulainn liked to talk about them as if they were family - were quick to ask where Cú was, and even quicker to give their well-wishes upon learning he was sick.

Sue was the regular he enjoyed the company of most. She was an older woman, probably about sixty or so, with eyes that showed years of mischief and adventure. He knew that Cú was especially fond of her, and it was easy to see why.

She had no problem standing around the stall, helping Diarmuid when it became apparent that he was still lost about what fish were best as recommendations for certain meals, and she laughed easily when recounting how many times Cú had charmed her friends with his antics. There was a natural ease about her person; a lackadaisical whimsy in her steps that seemed to draw people in and keep them there until she ushered them along herself.

It was fascinating to watch.

Sue’s current story was about the time that Cú had fed a family of strays, staying out in the rain with them to ensure they stayed warm and dry. Diarmuid had heard the story before from Cú himself, but to hear it from an outsider's perspective…

Maybe he was just a sucker for such things, but Sue spoke of the incident with far less nonchalance than Cú had done, and her retelling contained a great deal more affection.

Subconsciously, Diarmuid finds himself leaning over the counter as she speaks, his chin propped up in one hand as he thinks about the man he’s sharing his home with.

Sue cuts off her story, smiling softly as she watches him lean across the counter. “By the look on your face I can see my friends aren't the only ones he’s charmed.” Diarmuid hadn't even noticed how gentle his own expression had become, but he definitely notices when it grows hot and frazzled, his cheeks and ears burning as he tries to stammer out a response.

“He’s just - just a really close friend of mine is all!” Diarmuid winces at how obvious he sounds, flustered like he’s a boy talking about his first crush all over again. It’s true though. They _are_ just really close friends. Cú would never - he doesn't see Diarmuid that way. He flirts, sure, but flirting is Cú’s default state so it doesn't _mean_ anything and -

And Diarmuid’s never had the best track record with romance in the past. Having Cú as a friend is good enough. Perfect, even, if only his traitorous mind would stop fantasizing about kissing him or braiding his hair.

“Close friend, hmm?.” Sue chuckles, crouching down to pick up her bags. Leaving him _now_ is just so unfair. “That’s always how it starts you know,” she hums, reaching up to pat him on the shoulder. “Well, good luck with your pining. Hopefully you’ll figure it out soon.”

There’s absolutely _nothing_ for him to figure out. Cú isn't interested, plain and simple. Diarmuid’s feelings will eventually peter out - it’s just a temporary crush, that's all. He opens his mouth to say this to her, but Sue, despite her age, is quick on her feet and she’s already halfway down the street by the time he collects himself enough to try and respond.

The rest of his day passes quickly, mostly because he’s too busy reeling from Sue’s comment to pay attention to the time, and once he steps foot inside his front door the first thing Diarmuid thinks to do is collapse face first onto the sofa and muffle a whine into the cushions.

Cú shuffles over to sit down in front of him, grinning, probably, by the sounds of it. “Enjoy your day?”

“You owe me,” Diarmuid grumbles, turning his head to give a half-hearted glare. He was right. Cú _is_ grinning.

“Yes, yes.” Cú waves him off easily, leaning back against the sofa with a sigh. “How hard can selling flowers be?”

“You know there’s a whole _language_ involved right?”

Cú Chulainn frowns. “Flowers don't speak, Dia.”

“Oh I can’t wait for you to help me out when you get over this cold.”


End file.
